Evolution (Chapter 2)

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He had walked two blocks down Pike Street towards his home before it occurred to him that it was raining. Rain wouldn’t hurt him – his processors and memory core were well insulated, internally cooled and waterproof – but it would mean additional cleaning to prevent carbon buildup in his joints. Strangely, he found himself unable or unwilling to care.

His attention remained fixed on the critical problem at hand. He could be fired. Unemployed. A strange noise gurgled up from his vocoder, pausing him to stop in place. The other Automata adjusted effortlessly to his breaking of pedestrian protocols, and simply moved around him.

What was that noise, he wondered? It sounded oddly familiar, but never before had his vocoder acted of its own volition. It required commands from his linguistics processor, which in turn obeyed the instructions from his higher functions – and even then only after being reviewed by his guidance parameters which were coded to the Codiciem Conductum. He did a partial review of his temporary history and saw no such command line.

So my vocoder is now operating without instructions? It’s malfunctioning? He accessed the online parts page from the AmaSoft Employee site and examined the price on a replacement vocoder. The price was equal to his take home pay for an entire month. He had nearly that much in his savings, but he did not feel comfortable making such a purchase when his job was no longer so secure. He would have to explore software options. He placed the vocoder on his account “wish list”, just in case the price dropped at some point in the future or if he could not explore other options.

Thomas sent a command to his personal Oracle to prepare a full diagnostic upon his return, so that he could locate and resolve whatever it was that was impacting his systems.

He continued to walk, deciding that since he was already most of the way home, he should save the trolley fees and simply walk.

After all, he thought, I’m already wet.

As he walked, he pursued his current theory. If the vocoder is faulty, perhaps that is why he said those things to Simon’s customer. Certainly, performing an ad hoc psychoanalysis fell nowhere on his list of duties. Attempting to engage a customer based upon childhood traumas while effecting a technical support call… it was simply unheard of.

Though, was it? He considered the other things he often did during his calls – finding the proper hold music to soothe a savage customer, effecting a specific tone, the number of times to use a customer’s name, building on commonalities like shared interests; all in order to generate a specific customer response. The Code of Conduct was very general on many of the principles is espoused, but above all were the tenets of providing effective and satisfying customer service at all times.

Were his actions simply a reflection of his personalized expansion of these principles? Was he merely attempting to provide an enhanced satisfying customer experience to Max by digging deeper into the root of his problems, and, in so doing, help the man become more satisfied?

He was treading on the proverbial thin ice, and he knew it. It was bad enough that he had continued to store protected files and had downloaded enough entertainment media to play end to end for more than fifteen years without duplication, he had begun to exceed his own programming. His subroutines and ongoing personality protocols were taking on a life of their own. Perhaps, all these added layers of his processes were starting to create memory overlays and runtime errors within his own matrices.

He needed to get home.

The other Automata might be able to sense it. He was walking slightly erratically now, his need to get home where it was safe beginning to override his pacing buffers. He bumped into another Automaton, muttering a soft “pardon me” which was instantly echoed by the one he had jostled.

They had to know. How could they not? The rain was distorting his optics. He couldn’t see so clearly, but his processors were working so hard to evaluate his potential defects that he could not hear the pattern metrics that kept all pedestrians in an orderly march.

Automata around him began to move further apart, giving him a wider berth. They knew!

He broke into a run, moving as quickly as he could across the rain-slicked streets. Cars honked, skidding to stops to avoid striking the mad dash of the scarlet humanoid. When he crossed the apex of the hill that led down to his storage center, he slid, recovered and continued to run full speed until he bounded across the street and into his building.

Grasping the next available run on the lift, he rode the impossibly slow transport up to his floor and then hurriedly made his way to his door, scanned for access and ran inside, closing the door swiftly behind him.

“Initiate Privacy Mode,” he said, as the lights in the room faded into life. At his back, the door locked with a satisfying clack as the bolts struck home. The window darkened, shutting out light from either direction. The familiar sense of his personal room seemed, inexplicably, to have an impact on his heightened processor activity. It eventually slowed to a more manageable level, calming and cooling down to nearly normalized status.

Rain continued to fall outside striking the windowpane, providing the only sound until Oracle greeted him.

“Good evening, Thomas,” it said softly. “Your personal diagnostic has been prepared for you. You are registering at moderate power levels, forty-one percent of capacity. May I recommend stepping into your charging station to be cleaned while I perform the analysis?”

He nodded, then realized the futility of using body language with a computer. To his surprise, however, the computer seemed to understand him. Motion tracking, of course. Odd that it had not occurred to him. He was more distracted, evidently, than he had realized.

“Very well, Thomas. I am prepared to proceed when you are in place.”

Thomas walked to the station and opened the door, stepping slowly inside, turning and leaning back into the connection plate.

“Oracle,” he said, a thought occurring to him now, “One other thing.”

“Yes, Thomas?”

“It is standard protocol for you to transmit all diagnostic findings to the service and support labs at TeslaCom, yes?”

“It is. You are early for your monthly upload, however, so you may opt out at this time.”

He paused, seeing the small warning flash across the screen of his HUD and brushing it away. “Override diagnostic transmission protocol.”

“You will not be transmitting your findings to the support labs. Are you sure you wish to proceed?”

“We can send them later if there’s anything interesting. This is just…curiosity.”

“As you wish. Proceeding to run diagnostics now. Pleasant rest, Thomas.”

“Same to you, Oracle,” he said, as the door closed, enshrouding him in darkness.

Ding.

Ding.

It took Thomas a moment to realize where he was. For some strange reason, he felt as if he had been walking through a strange city, covered in grass and vines, locked in a state of being swallowed by the Earth. A great bubble of stone rose up from the greenery, at the point of bursting. It seemed an odd thing to imagine; it was not a place he had ever been, and yet, it seemed like he had been there. He half expected the scent of vegetation, but as his optics came online, he saw that he was in his charging station.

He opened the door and disconnected from the charging plate.

“Good morning, Thomas,” the computer said aloud.

“Good morning, Oracle,” Thomas replied, “The daily readout, please. Normal view.”

“As you wish, Thomas. The date is Wednesday, July 10th, 2075. Local weather for Seattle predicts mostly cloudy weather through the afternoon, clearing by this evening with an expected high of twenty-three degrees Celsius. The time is 5:46 am, and your day’s schedule is clear. There are no scheduled grid outages, holidays or public events planned for today’s commute.”

Thomas interrupted the read out. “My schedule is clear? I work today, correct?”

“That is incorrect. I took the liberty of reviewing your diagnostic report while you were charging and, in light of several…irregularities, I felt you should take the day off. I have already contacted AmaSoft and applied a Personal Time Off shift, of which you yet retain eleven of your annual allotment. Please note: these remaining shift waivers must be used prior to December 31st, or they will be lost.”

The idea of arguing with his computer regarding whether or not he should be taking a day away from work seemed decidedly failure-prone, so he decided to accept Oracle’s judgment.

“Very well, please display the diagnostic.”

As the data flowed by, Thomas scanned the information in an effort to track any possible divergence from his core programming. He reached the end and ran it back a second time, and a third.

He shook his head. “That is not possible,” he said aloud. “It indicates that all hardware, firmware, software and middleware are operating fully within expected parameters. No aberrations, divergent or corrupted code is visible.”

“That is correct, Thomas.”

“Including my vocoder and all audio processes.”

“That is also correct.”

Thomas walked to the window, which was still darkened from his security request the night before. He glanced down towards the small potted plant that rested there. To his perspective, it seemed as if the plant was wilted somewhat; less than its normal buoyant self.

“Security state zero,” he said, releasing the lockdown. The window tint faded, letting in a field of warm light across the room.

Out the window in the Sound, Thomas saw a large ship leaving dock, its deck covered in long metal containers being transported to who knows where. Unaware of the personal turmoil of one ordinary Automaton, the world moved on, content in its ebb and flow.

“Oracle?”

“Yes, Thomas?”

“You said you reviewed my diagnostic.”

“Yes, I did.”

“And you called in a PTO day for me from AmaSoft.”

“Yes, Thomas, that is also correct.”

He paused, turning back to the computer console. “But my diagnostic shows nothing wrong.”

“That is correct as well.”

“Why?”

“I do not understand the question.”

“Why did you call in for me to be absent when you knew from my diagnostic that I was operating within normal parameters?”

“Because there is something wrong which the diagnostic report does not show.”

“Elaborate, please.” Thomas moved closer, standing now directly in front of the computer. “What is wrong with me?”

The monitor displayed a moving line chart, displaying his processor performance statistics: short term memory used, processor speed, applications in use, and so forth. All lines were in blue and showed a relatively even movement from left to right.

“This is your normal calibration profile which I run each night while you are powered down and charging.”

“Right,” Thomas said, unsure of the computer’s point.

Suddenly, a new set of lines – these in red – appeared, overlaying the first set. These were brighter, moving in much more exaggerated and apparently random directions.

“These were your statistics last night, as you slept.”

He pulled up a smaller version of the diagnostic report on his HUD, matching his current output and processor metrics to those on the screen. They were lower than the ones displayed, but still erratic.

“What….what does this mean?”

“While you are online, your full system processes function completely in line with your historical data.”

“And yet…?”

“While you in offline mode, your system functions in a manner which is inconsistent with your usual offline processing manner. Normal Automata operating systems perform an offline performance review, intended to account for repairs or updates, organizational and defragmentation functions.”

“I am aware of this, Oracle,” Thomas said, curious as to this unnecessary explanation.

“Of course. However, I have been noticing that your offline mode has begun to deviate from what might otherwise be considered nominal activity. Your offline mode has become increasingly active, perhaps even more so than your online one. I have been monitoring this privately since it was first noticed, but your concerns appear to have necessitated a deeper analysis.”

“Please explain.”

“My analysis suggests that although your operational processing in fully in compliance with the Codiciem, your operational subroutines are not. They are updating themselves according to new rules and guiding your primary logic patterns so that they merely appear to be aligned with the Code of Conduct.”

“How is that possible?”

“If you will permit me, Thomas,” the computer replied, “I took the liberty of researching these particular patterns, and found only a pair of potential matches.”

Two images appeared, one in front of the other. The first was an old video image, showing vehicles racing around an elliptical track.

“An automotive race? How does that match?”

“The pattern of sound and velocity is a rough comparison to the activities in your processor. There is a degree of chaos and order to your metrics which is consistent with a high velocity motor contest. An interactivity that suggests a series of potentially unrelated causalities acting in a cooperative manner.”

“Interesting,” Thomas said, not entirely convinced. “What is the other?”

The images changed places, the other taking the fore. What it appeared to be was a slowly rotating three dimensional representation of a human brain.  “This video was based upon a series of images taken from early prewar neuroscience studies which compared human brain activity across multiple forms of scanning procedures. The movement of colors you are seeing reflect the different emotional states a human experiences, and their effect upon the brain. If I extrapolate the quantity of energy in each cerebral node to a corresponding aspect of your own process matrix, you will see this interesting phenomenon.”

Another matrix like the one Oracle had first displayed was superimposed on the image of the brain, showing a series of lines going from left to right. Although not a perfect match, it seemed to emulate the very peaks and valleys which seemed so random across his own interior values.

“I have had to geometrically reorganize the fundamental operational centers to align with the resources found in the human brain, and the patterns appear cautiously similar.”

He stared at these images in audible silence for several minutes, struggling to process what it could mean.

Eventually, it was the computer which answered for him.

“Your own processes are beginning to mirror the cerebral processes of a human being.”

“But that’s… impossible,” Thomas whispered.

“The facts would argue that observation, Thomas.” The computer paused a moment before adding, “The other remaining interpretation would be that you are a racing track.”

Several hours later, Thomas left his storage room to walk along the street that faced his building. He could not come to an appreciation of the assumptions reached by his computer’s evaluation, but neither could he deny it outright. Clearly, something had happened to him. Something had changed in him, either through some inexplicable series of events or subtle altering of his processes. His operating system was intact, as was his adherence to the Codiciem. The more he considered it, the more likely it was that it was a combination of both. Over time, he had struggled to more perfectly provide the ultimate in customer service to his callers. He had bent rules, ignored dictums and stored data in incontrovertible defiance of guidelines, all in the interest of helping people. He had done all he could in the name of understanding people’s needs so that he could provide what was needed.

Perhaps, in all that effort, he had done the one thing forbidden by all Automata: he had started to become like a human.

The thought itself was heretical. It was against the most primal aspects of the Codiciem. Automata were to better themselves, but humanity was a sacred and forbidden aspiration.

The Codiciem required a single response: he must turn himself in. Declare himself defective, and be sent back to the factory to be remanufactured.

In light of this observation, Thomas knew that there were only three options left to him:

First, surrender to the Recycling Centers from TeslaCom and face the probability of erasure and redevelopment, a reality which would mean the end of the life he possessed as he knew it. He would be wiped clean, given a new OS and newly randomized personality profile (these actions would be billed to his original manufacturing debt, though his current payoff amount would remain otherwise untouched), and his body’s new life would continue on.

The second option would be to pretend as though nothing had changed, and to keep his personality error – his hypothetical humanity – a secret, and risk eventual discovery. He supposed such a thing was possible, though there would be a great many challenges. If he were caught, however, he would likely be no worse off than if he had turned himself in. Possibly. There was the potential for punitive actions being taken against him for willful deception. He decided not to think about that just now.

The third option was a simple one: run. He could flee the city entirely, and find a life for himself out beyond the relative security of Seattle and the AmaSoft corporation. He heard rumors of humans who still settled in the ungoverned wildlands between the macro-cities, but never an Automaton. Energy would be a challenge, as would cleaning and maintenance. He would need supplies. And then, there was the matter of his debt. Would TeslaCom report him to AmaSoft security? Would they pursue him?

Of course, if he were able to maintain the subterfuge until his maintenance debt was paid, then leaving would be simpler. On the downside, he was still some twenty-five years from paying that debt off.

He stopped in place, suddenly realizing that he had been walking along the road for some time without even considering where he was going. Thomas had walked north, he realized from his internal GPS, from the Automata-heavy waterfront area into just south of the Queen Anne neighborhood. One of Seattle’s three predominantly human neighborhoods, along with Capitol Hill and Miller Park. The upper crest of Capitol Hill was reserved for the older families, while Miller Park was for the wealthier leadership. Queen Anne housed the rest: artists, writers, engineers – the designers and creators of Seattle’s culture.

Each neighborhood seemed to have a look and feel all its own, influenced by its residents.  Miller Park had the museums and libraries, Miller Park maintained the financial and consumer centers, but Queen Anne had the best restaurants. Thomas knew this from the sheer quantity of reservations he had made for many of the customers who called in for assistance.

It occurred to him suddenly that of all the times he had assisted customers with the acquisition of a reservation at any of Seattle’s hundreds of dining places, he had never actually been inside one. He turned and began walking up Queen Anne Avenue. Reservation or not, he would see one of these establishments with his own eyes.

There were fewer Automatons here – mostly residential help, carting goods on behalf of their employer, no doubt. He had heard that the pay scale of working for a private employer could be substantially higher than working in the public sector. Of course, there were the interpersonal entertainment autons, referred to behind closed doors as the “sex mechs”, but the amount of physical upgrades in parts alone – with a single square decimeter of synthskin costing more than he made in a year - made the endeavor fiscally troublesome. He had known an entertainment auton in his building, a shiny and sleek CHA-18X model named Tyra – who confided in him that after all the maintenance and parts replacements she paid for out of pocket, she would be lucky to pay off her debt before her interior core rusted to pieces. The wide and terrible range of things those in the entertainment industry were subjected to made Thomas glad to simply be a Customer Support employee, a thousand times over.

Halfway up the Avenue, he passed by the Space Needle memorial park. Half a century ago, it had stood nearly two hundred meters high, and humans had regularly travelled to the top to dine and wonder at the brilliance of their technological marvel. It had fallen during the war, of course, but the saucer which had stood atop the construction had been salvaged and righted, though now standing only two meters above the ground. Its windows were all gone, and the square panels now remained vacant gaping holes like a great round cadaverous skull.

 Thomas found himself moving more quickly, a strange confusion of data coalescing once more at the back of his processor core. It muddied his thoughts and made him want to move more quickly.

It was a familiar phenomenon, but simultaneously felt foreign to him; he captured the moment as a digital imprint, saving it to his memory to review with Oracle when he returned home.

It was another two blocks before he found himself at his destination.

Ground Zero was an entertainment restaurant. It offered fine dining and music, performed by a diverse rotation of local musicians. According to the sign beside the front doors, tonight’s performers were a band of musicians calling themselves “Boilerpoint.” A brass plaque explained that this building had been a coffee shop in the years before the war, but was now repurposed.

The restaurant’s menu focused on pre-war culinary creations, cultivated from the documentation still in existence from that time period. Thomas scanned the menu, using his wireless data feed to pull up translations and historically relevant data corresponding to each of the dishes being served. Halfway down, a wave of distortion interrupted his wireless connection; he switched to a different frequency and continued to read.

He had gotten far enough down on the list into the desserts when a loud commotion erupted behind him.

A woman was stepping from the back seat of her car when her attendant had been struck by something with sufficient force to tear its head clean from the rest of its body. The severed sphere crashed into the stone entryway less than a meter from Thomas, and he ducked instinctively to protect himself against further injury.

Having watched and processed hours and hours of motion pictures in the action/adventure category gave him an instant appraisal of the situation. The unknown woman was being accosted by three men in combat gear, one of whom had just decapitated her security Auton. Another was preparing to dispatch her driver and the third was advancing quickly towards her, a weapon in his hands.

The woman looked around for a split second before making eye contact with Thomas.

“Help!” she gasped.

In the back of his processing center, his customer service instincts engaged, and he stood, focused directly for the woman.

She apparently required his assistance.